Marseille lay like a spattered cowpat on the uneven Mediterranean shoreline, festering in the year round effulgent sun. A city of great contrasts, splendidly crowned by the pinnacle-sat “Notre Dame de la Gare” chapel, mosaiced, ornamented, becandled, dominated by a towering golden Maria & Child enjoying their panoramic view down the rugged landscape to the Quartier Arabienne.
This latter, thriving, bustling area of a few streets between La Gare St Charles and La Canebiere supports numerous Saharan Businessmen and their families, via beautifully bestrewn bazaars, or cafes offering tiny glasses of mint tea plus abundant sickly-sweet pastry tidbits. Where relaxed cum fierce competition rules & consumes each night and day, where junk jewellery wholesalers, hookah houses and whores push, persuade, where illegal street sellers underclothed with North African Cigarette packets at a third of tax paid prices wander between pavement groundsheets piled high with garments that disappear in a trice at first sight of the Gendarmerie.
Where too we find the beggars, vending pathos. Some outstretched hands belong to Arab women with small doleful eyed children. Some are are drink wasted white men, internationals of every age, sad, stupified bearers of placard’s “J’ai famme”. These thirsty fellows often make a better income than the average worker, and boast of it among themselves as they drown their Cans of Beer on the aptly named street, La Canebiere…. In the summer they sleep outside, in the Winter for fr3,- per night there are crowded Monastery Dormitories in the Mission “Jean Dieu”.
Circa 1978, shortly before Christmas, a tired Englishman, biggish fellow, somewhat overweight and of unkempt hair seeking a way station, entered the mission. Each day he would go to the University, spread a black cloth on the floor to display brightly colored earrings. As his pile of loose change grew, he would become bored, then impatient for a drink, so would soon depart for the cheap waterfront bars, seeking solace in wine and conversation with others of his wandering ilk. His favorite watering hole was well known for non-adherence to opening hour laws, a ruffians rendezvous where lawmen never trod.
At New Year a party of Germans arrived, they spoke no French, so hired him for the duration as their interpreter. Near on 48 hours of foul red wine chain-smoked joints, drifting through laughter incoherency and inchair slumbers….. Then the Germans left and the bar soon ran out of wine.
Out on the pavement the Englishman was confronted by a number of Frenchman, shouting we hate Germans and proceeded to savagely beat him, many rapid blows to the head, leaving him bleeding, unconscious. He awoke in a police clinic, where the staff were dismissive of this stinking “Clochard”. They washed his face, and left him uncovered on a bench. Morning release procedure required an examination by the duty visiting doctor. Fortunately she was an eye specialist. On finding a sight aberration she drove him to the city hospital in her own car and operated immediately, removing a tiny bone fragment from the right eye socket.
They had both forgotten to take his bag. Later when he asked about it, he was told that the police clinic staff had sent it to his residence - Jean Dieu.
Days later the bandages came off, the operation declared a total success. He began to take an interest in his surroundings, a small room shared with two more optical cases, both elderly Corsicans. The three spent their time conversing over their ailments and life experiences. Each day was broken by family visits of M’Sieu Marconi; a portly pleasant wife and bored flashy gold bedecked unintelligent son, She always carrying flowers and smiles for all, he carrying contempt for foreign hippies.
As was the custom in French Hospitals, most patients received a daily half litre of reasonable quality thick Red Wine, for which the Englishman had no desire, simply donating his bottle to M’Sieus Marconi and Sereny. For twenty years scarcely a day had passed without booze. He’d learned to booze in the army, continued boozing through various jobs businesses and an unhappy marriage. This spell in hospital was beginning to surprise him with a clarity of thought - which he decided to persue.
The Englishman’s face mended, but he suffered from vertigo, days passed before the hospital allowed him a pass and sticks for a short test walk, to retrieve his bag from Jean Dieu. They wished to do further tests and observations for upto three weeks, but he could have a three hour afternoon pass. As he made progress around the city he would see his former doss-house companions, lurching or dozing about. He became appalled at the tragic waste. Further progress brought him to the harbour, where he found startlingly meaningful views of those ancient fortresses, the Headquarters of the French Foreign Legion. A rediscovered boyhood passion for architecture fired up his resolve and direction thus propelling him to an artist’s materials shop. He began to sketch……
To Be Continued….
UPDATE, This Creative Adventure :-
You may have already picked up that in October we commence Introductions, ie:- articles/interviews with other Planet Conscious Minds, namely
and Now we have joining us in November. All under “HALLO GOLDIE !”.Then in January we would like to add “HALLO NEWBIE !” - Interviews with writers who have recently started out on Substack. If you would like to be featured in this promotional activity, please get in touch with us at https://thiscreativeadventure.com Don’t be shy !!
NeXt on Maurice’s Substack :-
Random Story # 2b, Weds 11th Sept. “La Monastere”.
Then # 2c, Weds 18th Sept. “La Village Incomplet” Part Two (of two).
NeXt on https://thiscreativeadventure :-
TCA # 2, Fri 13th “Vision, Goals, Focus, #?”.
Thankyou for being Here. Maurice…
Many thanks my friend, more on this in a fortnight, with a separate but related tale in between.... BTW - hit another milestone last night !! Regards to Lynette....
GRACIAS MAURICE